


Be Like That

by Crowgirl



Series: Scars Remind Us [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season 3 Spoilers, Season 4 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-04
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:16:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing discussion, and ramifications thereof, between Dean and Castiel about the after-effects of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Like That

'I put you back together the way I saw you.'

Dean nearly drives off the road.

After all this time, he thinks almost calmly as he wrestles the wheel and straightens the car out, after all this damned time, you'd think he'd be used to Castiel popping in out of nowhere and making mysterious pronouncements.

But no – every time it makes his heart leap and his pulse speed and sends his reflexes for shit.

He pulls the Impala over onto a broad grassy shoulder, aware the whole time of Cas looking at him quizzically as if wondering what the problem is. He stops the car, turns off the engine, and stares straight ahead for a moment or two, listening to the engine tick as it cools. He thinks that questions should really be jostling one another to get out of his head but he can't think of a damned thing. Except, 'Dude, I am going to _weld_ a fucking bell to your skull.'

Cas cants his head, brows knitted together. 'What purpose would--'

'So I'd know you were goddamn well coming! I mean, for the love of fuck, Cas, do you think it's safe to just pop in while I'm driving and say – what the hell did you say again?'

'I put you back together the way I saw you,' Cas repeats patiently, and adds, 'And you do not like things that are safe. How is Sam?'

'Wishing he were dead, poor bastard.' Dean has just left Sammy semi-conscious in one of Bobby's spare rooms with the worst case of stomach flu Dean has seen in ten years. Bobby had grimaced and muttered and made lots of noise about making them clean up his bathroom, but when Dean left, Bobby was in the kitchen, talking to an herbalist friend of his and making peppermint tea.

Castiel nods. 'I am sorry he is sick.'

'I'll tell him. What the hell are you doing here again?' Dean twists in his seat to look at Cas who, for a wonder, doesn't fix those unblinking eyes on him. Instead, he looks at the dash of the Impala as if it is the most fascinating thing he has ever seen. 'Is there a job?'

Cas shakes his head.

'Then--' Dean hesitates. _“Why are you here?”_ seems outright rude. And the kiss is still buzzing around his nerve endings and has caused him a few uncomfortable dreams but he doesn't know what to ask so he ignores it. What the hell would he say, anyway? _"So, hey, by the way -- what the fuck was that kiss?"_ 'Uh – glad to have the company and all, but--'

Castiel cocks his head and looks at him. 'The answer to your question. I put you back together as I saw you.'

Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel and stares out the windshield. 'So – why don’t I look like Frankenstein?'

Castiel shakes his head. 'None of that was important. None of that was you.'

'It felt like me.'

'Dean – do you discern between appearance and reality at all?' Castiel sounds mildly disbelieving but not angry.

'What? Yeah, I--'

'You have spent your entire life hunting things that misdirect and lie and cheat and change their appearance and you cut through it unerringly. Are you really incapable of seeing past what is in your own mirror?'

'Look, man, if this is the pre-game pep talk, you can skip it; just tell me what the job--'

Castiel's hand covers his mouth and Dean splutters, then snorts, then blinks over Castiel's fingers. The angel is looking at him steadily, clearly waiting for him to stop. Dean huffs against Castiel’s palm and does, trying to signal unending, saintly patience with his eyebrows.

Cas goes on slowly, his low, quiet voice almost lost in a quick outbreak of birdsong from the verge outside: 'I put you back together the way I saw you. The scars, the burns, the breaks, the dislocations, they were not _you_ any more than this trench coat is _me_.'

Cas' hand doesn't move but he is clearly waiting for a response of some kind. Dean can't do anything more than shake his head and grunt to express his lack of comprehension, but it seems to get the point across. Cas pauses, looking out over Dean's shoulder and Dean is left with nothing else to think about but how Cas' skin smells so good: warm, clean, with a faint hint of sweetness that somehow doesn't remind Dean of any soap he knows. He is reminded, uncomfortably, of the taste of Cas' mouth.

Cas regards him again for a moment, then shakes his head, sighing, and lets his hand fall back into his lap. He looks down at them, flexing his fingers. 'Perhaps they are right.'

'Who?' Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth and is disturbed by how gravelly he sounds. He coughs and tries again, 'Who?'

'The other angels. Uriel.'

'Oh, that sour-faced mother--'

'They said I was too close to my human charges. To you and Sam. Too involved. And when I tried to remake you--' Cas sighs again, momentarily closing his eyes, and Dean is struck by the shadows below his eyes, the near translucency of his skin. Can angels get exhaustion? He can practically see the tint of blue veins below Cas’ pale skin and, as soon as he realises this, he realises something else: he wants to reach out and touch, see what the pulse feels like at the angle of Cas’ jaw.

Cas shakes his head, opening his eyes and looking down at his hands again and Dean looks blindly away out the windshield, no idea what he’s looking at but sure he doesn’t want Cas to catch him staring. ‘You were so beautiful.'

Dean chokes, all other thoughts gone. 'Excuse me?'

Cas opens his eyes, looks down at his hands again, and seems to shrink into himself, becoming even smaller. 'You were so beautiful.' Even his voice is smaller. 'I remade what I saw.'

Dean's head is going to pop, he's absolutely sure of it. All the blood in his body is pounding between his ears – well, most of – well, quite a bit – well, some of it, anyway, and his skull is just going to blow off his fucking shoulders. And take a few other bits of his anatomy with it, maybe.

And then his memory throws him a life-belt: Cas thinks all humans are beautiful. Hell, he thinks _everything_ is beautiful. Dean has seen him study roadkill with the same care and attention as a sunset.

Cas looks at him and smiles, but he does not look happy. 'No. Not because you are of this world. Because you are you.'

'That's why you kissed me?' It's not really a question, not really a statement and sometimes Dean just cannot believe how dense he is. Introspection has never been his strong suit but this is award-winning even for him. If Sam were here right now in the backseat, he'd be leaning forward to whap him on the back of the head and damned if he wouldn't let the sasquatch do it 'cause, man, he deserves it.

Cas flinches – actually flinches – and looks away out the window. 'I am – sorry. For that. I know – I should know – better than most--'

'Oh, dude, shut the fuck up.' And Dean leans forward, grabs his chin, and tries his best to find out what kind of coffee Cas had for breakfast that morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "If I Could Be Like That," 3 Doors Down, _Away from the Sun._


End file.
